young volcanoes [closed]

[Remington Rothfelder]

He glanced sidelong at the man when the question was posed, and simply grinned in response. “There’s a reason my hand is still there.” It was more of an observation than an answer, though his fingers did not seem intent on disengaging anytime soon, at least not until they actually got to his door and he was forced to release. Most would have considered it exceptionally forward of him, and it was. But Remington had never made any bones about his tastes, or how interested he happened to be in pursuing them. There was always the option for his conquests to turn him away, and that had happened more times than he would ever really admit to. He would go in for a bit of fun and end up with his cheek streaked in pink and red, a print there.

He was almost pleasantly surprised, based on Sterling’s attitude, when his advances were not immediately rebuffed. Maybe the man had developed a sense of taste. Or something.

Whatever the case, he was in the midst of getting his travel bag from the top of his closet when he felt pressure against the back of his neck. He didn’t really have time to react. Or he did, but to do so would have been to reveal what he was, and he’d straddled the line enough for one night with that. He was jerked around, shoved back first against a wall. And then lips were mashed against his own, in a way that might have been confused with inexperienced given the rough drag of teeth and the firmness of it all. Surprise was not an expression that Remington wore often, but he did – even if it was obscured by a mouth on his. He let it happen for a moment, which may have been the need to instill false hope or because he legitimately enjoyed the burst of passion.

He leveraged himself against the wall, and because there was nothing to restrain him, he forced his way opposite the direction Sterling was attempting to go, which only served to intensify what was already a violent kiss. His tongue shoved its way into a mouth, past a cage of teeth, with all of the gentle nature of a rampaging bear. It wasn’t meant to feel particularly good. No, Sterling had set the pace, and Remington was happy to comply in like kind. So he invaded like he intended to conquer, a wet muscle driving over the roof of a mouth to feel the smooth texture of it, and then deeper, as if he were trying to reach into the very core of the other male through his throat.

When he did pull back, he did not have to feign breathlessness, his chest giving a heave that should have been unnatural to his kind. His eyes flashed with a mixture of emotions that were leaking dangerous close to the surface, seeping through the cracks in the walls he had carefully erected around them. It was a wild thing, an animal notion.

His hands slid from his sides so that he could lift them and grasp just beneath shoulders, his fingers tightening around biceps with enough force that he had to remind himself that he could snap bone when he really wanted to. He twisted and shoved Sterling back with enough force to send him sprawling *** first onto one of the few pieces of furniture in the room – his bed. The thing was large, an altar to a special kind of greed that could only be found between the sheets.

“You are making this packing thing really…difficult.” He had to edit himself, because his original choice was to use the term ‘hard’, which would have been impractical for a myriad of reasons which essentially boiled down to Remington not wanting to spend the entire evening being teased. He glanced back to his closet for a moment and then to Sterling. “So make a choice. You want to leave now or tomorrow evening?” No skin off his fangs either way.

[Sterling Monsivais (DELETED 6002)]

He felt, for an overwhelming split second, like he was sixteen again. A confusion of hands and teeth, which admittedly stemmed from both restlessness and not knowing where he'd like to touch first. It was poorly executed; clumsy and just to one side of painful, teeth digging into the thin flesh of his lips before cracking against Remington's own. It was decidedly lacking in finesse. If Sterling had allowed a moment to be honest with himself, it wasn't quite how he'd pictured it unfolding. It certainly wasn't the most stellar of first impressions. Only a hair less violent than his initial greeting. He typically wasn't impulsive. Caught in the grips of the temporary lapse in judgement, however, he was starting to find he kind of liked it. It suited him.


He was pleasantly surprised when Remington didn't move to shrug him off immediately. He'd gone still underneath his touch; motionless and solid. In retrospect, it had served as a warning. If he hadn't been wholly absorbed in the solid presence of the other man--the enjoyment of the barely perceptible shift of muscles under skin--he might have paid more heed. Instead, he was swept up in the fact that every giddy adolescent fantasy he'd ever had was playing out right in front of him. He leaned into him, chest forcing itself flush with Remington's, as if to pin him solidly against the wall. It was reflexive; an unconscious urge to keep him from pulling away. As if, by sheer will, he could somehow make up for the years he'd stood idly by and let him run.


He anticipated the shove a split second before it happened. He tensed, reacting to the way the body pressed to his braced. Instinct came as a polite suggestion; a vague warning to back off. He ignored it. The sudden sensation of being forced backwards was only eclipsed by the forceful entry of Remington's tongue . A low, frustrated sound escaped him; halfway between a sharp intake of breath and a groan. Not because he was forced to give ground, but because he was being denied the chance to retaliate. He couldn't fully enjoy the slick friction or the way that the taste of him flooded his mouth with the heavy drag of a tongue. Couldn't respond in kind. He reached up a split second later, hands settling on either side of his neck. There was a slight pressure--fingertips pressing into skin, the barest bite of nails--but no real threat behind the gesture. It was a means of keeping him in place.

When he broke away, there was an immediate, wrenching sense of disappointment. A low-grade anger that flashed in his eyes. Heated. Borderline predatory. He sucked in air, expression smoothing into something more familiar. Dazed. And, like a drunken prom date that hadn't quite understand the nuisance of her date gently pushing her back, he moved forward. He was halted only by the pressure of fingers tightening their grip over biceps. He glanced up briefly, one brow arching. The grip wasn't particularly painful, but it was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, forcing muscles to flex in protest, in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure. He had no chance to catch himself. He stumbled when thrown, half-tripping over his own feet before landing in a rather undignified sprawl.

He drew himself upright slowly, hands pressing flat against the mattress to leverage himself into a sitting position, expression guarded. His lips parted, as if in preparation to deliver a retort. They closed a second later. He considered him for a moment, weighing his words. The rational part of his mind argued against unnecessary delays. Their travel would require a least two full stops, if not more. And yet...it wasn't as if he had a set deadline. He'd yet to report his search as a success. What was one more day, in the grand scheme of things? "We..." He started, abruptly settling back, "can leave tomorrow."
Or the next day. Or the next. Or, you know. Never. It flashed across his thoughts. He did nothing to quiet the line of thinking. One hand lifted, index finger crooking sharply in a distinct beckoning gesture. "Let's talk it out."

[Remington Rothfelder]

He took a step towards the edge of the bed so that he could lean over it just enough to snag a set of legs that stretched towards him, and tug them closer. Of course, they were forcibly parted so that by the time that bodies were pressed somewhat flush, thighs were spread to either side of his legs. His bed was low enough and he was tall enough that they did not quite line up in the traditional sense, but that didn't seem to phase Remi. He peered down into eyes even as his hand slipped to let his fingers dig into a shoulder. It was more of a steadying touch than anything else. Maybe a reminder that he could out muscle Sterling if he truly wanted. But the touch held no malice.

Inward his fingers crawled until he pressed his thumb to that fleshy gap in the jaw under the chin. That single digit trailed until he was lightly pressing against an Adam's apple. Not hard. Maybe contemplative, if anything. The flesh was warm, and he felt the subtle grating of unshorn stubble. Funny. The last time he had seen the other man, it didn't look like Sterling would have ever been able to grow any facial hair at all. Baby faced would have been accurate. But that wasn't him anymore, and every part of Remi wanted to see what other changes had taken place in the decade or so since they had last laid eyes on each other.

"Tomorrow it is." The words were spoken somewhere between a husky, rough need and what could have been a death sentence. Like it had never really been Sterling's choice to begin with and the whole point of asking him had been little more than a formality. He let his hand press against a chest once more, only this time it was not to shove but so that he could lightly force the other man down until his back rested to the surface of the mattress with its simple monocolor bedding style. As he moved, a knee came to rest between thighs, not intent on doing any damage, but simply to perch so that he could follow along right after Sterling.

He hovered over him, retracing the trail his fingers had made before so that he could tighten his grasp finally around a throat, enough force applied finally to cut off oxygen. He made up for it by pressing their lips together, lapping against that little seam between two soft petals when he was ready to release. Except he never quite did - release that is. His grip loosened just a little bit. Enough to breathe, but it never left that spot, as if he were afraid the other man might somehow just wander away at any moment and he wanted physical assurance to the contrary. Sterling could likely feel just how intrigued the vampire was at the idea of 'talking', proof evident where it lay trapped against his inner thigh, which did not quite touch the material separating him from the skin he wanted to explore.

Intermission. We'll return to our regularly scheduled thread shortly!

[Sterling Monsivais (DELETED 6002)]

He'd been promised coffee. The thought was mildly morose. Four hours behind schedule, and he was woefully empty-handed. It had been a clever ruse, admittedly. It had served to silence his complaints for the better part of an hour, if nothing else. He'd been slow to dress, only partially because of how muscles seized, rigid with inflammation. He was fairly certain that he shouldn't have been pleased with that sharp pull of muscles, the way it felt as if something vital had snapped. The way that his voice was a ruined shell of itself, thin and hushed, as if roughened with sleep. He'd worried that the onset of morning would bring regrets. That all-too-familiar feeling of listless disappointment. It hadn't been awkward, the way he had worried it might. A consequence of wanting something for years, only to find out that it was a case of expectation exceeding reality. But waking up next to Remington had felt...natural.

That was the other half of the equation. The nagging realization that with every article of clothing he managed to locate and retrieve from the floor, it meant drawing closer to a divide. The ordered normalcy of his life--dictated by routine and the sterile future of wife, children, and a moderately impressive home--and the question mark that Remington presented. The uncertainty that came with it. Sterling wasn't an impulsive man. The dilemma Remington had created with their hushed conversation--which he could have dismissed as pillow talk--was which of those options was worth holding onto. The security of an assured career. Family. Or Remington? Which was harder to let go of? A problem for another day, he decided.

Mercifully, it hadn't taken long for them to get on the road. In part because he hadn't needed to pack. The only piece of luggage he'd brought with him was an overnight travel bag, which he'd kept in the trunk of his rental. It held the barest essentials; a few sundries and six pairs of carefully folded clothes. A battered and dog-eared paperback rested on top of it all, pages yellowed and well-thumbed. Not that he'd had any time to read the damn thing. He managed to return his rental car roughly two hours behind schedule. There was an air of finality as he'd handed over the keys to the the woman behind the counter. "Coffee?" He'd asked, managing to sound both hopeful and accusatory all at once. He paused with his fingers hooked underneath the handle of the passenger side door, gaze locking with Remington's.

His lips quirked briefly, tugging up into the barest hint of a smirk, before he'd yanked the door open and slid inside. When the silence grew too oppressive, some six hours later, he spoke, drawing his gaze from the unchanging, darkened landscape that rushed by his window. "What is it you do, exactly?" The question was guarded. Wary, despite the curiosity. There were certain things about the man that didn't quite measure up, and his explanations had been lacking. Vague. He wasn't expecting that he'd be any more forthcoming, under Sterling's wordless scrutiny. It was conversation for the sake of it; a way to fill the silence. To align their lives in a way that made sense. It was going to be a long trip, after all. Might as well get cozy.

[Remington Rothfelder]

The way the other man talked made Remington feel like he had done something wrong. In most cases, that was met in one of two ways, either with plain derision (Remington loathed people who felt they had a right to chide him pointlessly) or with grim acceptance and determination to change. The latter of the two was reserved almost exclusively for those people in Remi's life who held meaningful office in his personal or professional world. A handful at best. Sterling presented a third option, it seemed. Maybe it was because the half-Mexican seemed almost playful in the approach, but the vampire felt very little need to be grumpy about it. He had promised after all. That opened up a whole other can of worms. The Shadow's immediate response was to ask if Sterling took every promise made whilst in bed seriously. He avoided saying it narrowly, if only because there had been a few topics discussed of some importance and he didn't want the weight of those diminished because of his queer levity.

Maybe he was just in a really good mood. For reasons.

"You really don't want to get out of Harper Rock, do you?" They had managed to burn a few hours of nightfall 'waking up' after Remington had sufficiently worn Sterling out enough to get on his schedule properly, and in the interest of actually getting to Texas in a timely fashion, he decided it was best to only get some shitty gas station coffee to tide them over. He found almost immediately that this was a mistake. Which was not to say that the human had not been appreciative, but that same accusatory look seemed to pass over his features whenever Sterling regarded the plain styrofoam. Finally, about three hours into their trip, Remi decided that they had traveled far enough to have earned a proper sit-down.

Only a few words were exchanged at the time, but the Shadow made good on his promise. Stopping at a Tim Horton's. The last one they were likely to come across before passing over the border into the States. A small taste of Canada for the Detective. He had, of course, opted not to have any of the hot drink himself. He put on a bit of a show though. Keeping up the pretense of mortality was surprisingly easy when the subject of the deception was a willing participant. People saw what they wanted to, a nd very few actually wanted to acknowledge the presence of the supernatural.

His bag had been tossed into the very narrow back seat of his sports car because the trunk was full of weapons. Or. Well he hadn't told Sterling that. The lock is broken had been the official story. He wasn't about to explain why he had a mobile armory. Besides, the thing was rigged to be almost impossible to open unless one had supernatural strength on their side - purely because he wasn't about to risk some beat cop pulling him over and arresting him for his arsenal. There were a few other modifications as well. Like the light canceling covers to his windows that had been built into the doors. He controlled a myriad of things from his magnetic key which never left his person.

He turned his head at the question, to glance over to Sterling. They had been on the road again for a few hours. They only had a little bit to go really before they were going to have to stop for the day. That was a curious question for a private detective to be asking wasn't it? And yet he had asked the mortal to stay with him. He was still being secretive, he supposed. That was as much for Sterling's safety as his own though. He knew how dimly Tytonidae viewed any human knowing about vampirism. And yet...Phoenix had one didn't she? Hell, Nix's human (whose name he didn't quite recall), had performed her hand-fasting ceremony to Blake. Remi and Vel had been there, but that particular mortal hadn't been killed.

Were there...rules for that sort of thing?

It was a discussion he was going to have to have with his sire at some point.

"Well I have no doubt you know what I do on paper. I own a dojo, but that is going to be signed over to someone else soon. My contracts with a few different production studios are going to be lapsing in a few months. I work for a tattoo shop, though I have no artistic skill to speak of. But I'm going to guess that you're curious about my nocturnal proclivities." His emerald gaze returned to the road ahead. He was dancing around answering. He knew it. Sterling likely knew it. "Have you ever known something about someone with so much power that it could snuff out both you and them like a candle? A secret buried so deep that just knowing it put everything you love and care about in danger?" He finally asked, his jaw tightening.

[Sterling Monsivais (DELETED 6002)]

The coffee --- if it could be called such a thing --- tasted peculiar. Stale. The vaguely chemical aftertaste of a pot left to sit too long. Sterling wasn't certain how one could burn coffee, but that was the taste that coated his tongue. As if he'd forced his tongue against the aging coils of a Mr. Coffee. He'd accepted it graciously, coveting the warmth that seeped from the thinly isolated Styrofoam walls. He rolled the cup between his cupped palms, the motion slow and deliberate. His thumbnails bit into the edges of the cup, leaving shallow indents; half-formed crescents overlapping, littering its sides. He didn't respond to Remington's statement immediately, instead taking a shallow sip from the cup. He swallowed the bitter liquid with a vaguely pained, flinching sound. "Look," he said after a moment. "Your life is here. I respect that." It didn't address the question, unflinchingly cagey. He hadn't wanted to leave the other man's bed. The two points were hardly mutually exclusive. As far as he was concerned, however, Harper Rock had largely been a forgettable experience. It was a city that bred anonymity. Ideal, he supposed, if you wanted to disappear.

"Mine isn't." It was perhaps too simplistic. Unfairly so. But he hadn't felt like retracing their drowsy conversation some hours before. Hadn't wanted to salt the wound. Hadn't felt it necessary to steal Remington's hope from him. An all too unnecessary thievery. Or maybe he just hadn't wanted to come up with reasons as to why it couldn't be. He'd lapsed into comfortable silence after, focusing on draining the remains of cup. If he drank a little faster than necessary. The roast had been dark; a fact that would have pleased him, ordinarily. He preferred his coffee black. After the first few swallows, the bitterness faded, an undertone of the typical rich, full-bodied flavor emerging. Not quite acceptable, though less intolerable than before. The sky was just beginning to lighten by the time he turned his attention to other subjects. Sunrise was held at bay by a few hours yet; clouds thinning to a transparent charcoal in color, underlit by the paler cast of soft navy sky.

Thin fingers of gray streaked across the horizon; fuzzy. Indistinct. He met Remington's gaze steadily. "On paper," he repeated. He didn't point out that 'on paper' was where things began to lose their shine, the veneer of credibility flaking off. No one was that squeaky-clean. Certainly not Remington. And yet, his paper trail had dwindled to almost nothing over the years. "That tells me a lot about what you did, yes," he allowed, once he'd finished. "Doesn't really answer the question, though." He paused, considering him. He had to admire how deftly he'd avoided giving an answer. It was subtle. Most would've been satisfied by the explanation. Or at the very least, known to leave well enough alone. Remington had been right, though. He was curious. His next words gave him pause. His fingers flexed inward, crushing the cup. There was a brittle, creaking snap, and the styrofoam crumbled in his lap.

"Yes." The reply was terse. It didn't matter that Remington had glanced away; Sterling's gaze was fixed on him. "It's what I do." Dig up things people would rather stay buried. Brought things, often kicking and screaming--into the light. "I built a career on knowing things I shouldn't, Remington." A short, derisive snort. "I've ruined lives. Might be ruining yours." His jaw tightened for a moment, gaze averting. He plucked restlessly at a section of the cup still largely intact, crumbling it between his fingers. "So if you're in legal trouble or if you've done something, these are things I need to know." He paused. He didn't. Not truthfully. It would be a mercy not to know. To see this through to conclusion, and resume his life at the end of it. "Otherwise, I'll be forced to assume that I've missed a marker for psychopathic tendencies and I'll exit the vehicle." His lips quirked mildly, though it was difficult to tell, in that subtle expression, whether he was joking.

[Remington Rothfelder]

Their lives were in two radically different places, and that did not just relate to climate. Texas was bad for Remington - too many bad memories there. The distance from the place he had grown up had done him a lot of good, but he supposed it was unfair to expect the same from Sterling. It grated against his nerves just a little bit if he were honest, because Remi rarely let people get close to him. He could count on one hand the people in Harper Rock who knew anything about him or his past. That had been intentional. He could not afford to leave the Canadian city for more than a visit, and Sterling wasn't willing to relocate. Remi didn't...like dead ends. He was the kind of person who believed if life gave you lemons, you were best served squeezing lemon juice into life's eyes (**** that guy).

So he remained silent for the most part through as much of their trip as possible. Better, he figured, than him saying something that would ruin the chances of their getting along through what remained of the trip. That would have been terribly typical of Remi. Being able to borrow something for a short time, and being so mad at the prospect of not being able to keep it forever, that he ended up not enjoying it while it was his. But soon conversation crept right back up.

"If it were as petty as criminal activity, I'm sure you would have discovered it by now." Though that wasn't entirely true. Remington had broken a lot of human laws. Specifically, he had killed a lot of people in the past year. Some of them had already been 'dead' to begin with, so he doubted those really counted, but there were others, like the ones that had been related to the death of his father. He had wiped out droves of members of the Mexican Cartel. Those men had been criminals, but the legal system didn't really look at it that way; it made no exceptions for vengeance or vigilante justice. He had been very careful not to leave a trail though.

He struggled for a moment with what to say, his eyes on the road, his jaw clenching. They passed a sign that said they were near a city, and he figured they could exit there. He needed to get to a hotel in time to board over the windows and secure a secondary lock. Just a shitty little place that wouldn't really care how they left the place so long as the bed could be made afterwards. He then reached, and hit the automatic lock, turning a smile towards Sterling, almost daring him to find a way out of the car immediately (without breaking the glass). He then, of course, spoke so as to not give the impression that he was actually crazy.

"Okay so lets try this one on for size. Do you believe in the supernatural world? Like ghosts and all of that? Well lets just say that I belong to a society now, a group that does. Not only does it believe in those things, but we are very careful to eliminate evidence of certain aspects of it. Our job is to keep the majority of the world in the dark about the things that go bump in the night. It's why I am gradually erasing my own social footprint, because I fully intend to fall off of the radar, completely within the next decade or so." Which, in retrospect, didn't really make him seem not crazy. But Sterling had asked after all.

He took the next exit, not glancing towards the other man.

[Sterling Monsivais (DELETED 6002)]

"Your mother would've been just as quick to make sure I forgot." The words were tight, tension thrumming with the unspoken implication. He didn't quite bristle, though the brief look he shot him was hard. Legally speaking, neither Sterling nor his mother could afford retaliation from House Rothfelder. Their footing was fragile, financially speaking. A house of cards built with unsteady hands. Hands that shook with a visible tremor, fingers stiff and curled with the beginnings of arthritis that had come nearly twenty years too early. Between the medical pills for assorted pain killers that insurance barely covered--even when his mother could afford the coverage--and the ever-increasing housing market threatening to cripple the modest two-story home he had grown up in--well. For all his constant, murmured assurances, gnarled fingers pressed to his lips--Don't worry, mamita, don't worry -- it wouldn't take much to ruin their precarious house of cards.

And while his pride insisted that he was a man who couldn't be bought, he was hesitant to deal in absolutes. Because he'd watched in silence, framed in the doorway, on days his mother's hands ached to the point where she struggled to light the candles that lined her makeshift alter. Watched impassively and wondered where her saints were now. Where they'd been all those years, watching her from yellowed, peeling eyes, thin paint flaking off cloudy glass. Sterling, at eight. At ten. At fifteen. I'm gonna fix it. At six, when he first learned that the houses of the other kids were bigger. Cleaner. Empty of incense and dead saints and that heavy, defeated way of walking his mother had by age thirty-three. Being told "It doesn't matter, mi cielo." He sometimes found himself staring at her. Challenging. Wondering if, years later, she could bring herself to say it still.

He exhaled a second later, shoulder leaning slightly, pressing against the door as they turned sharply onto the exit ramp. His next rush of words took him aback. He stared for several long seconds, before his gaze jerked towards the window. The gesture was less dismissive than moody. "If you didn't want to tell me," he said after a moment, jaw tensing, "then that's all you had to say. Instead of trying to convince me that you're a whatever-the-****." The answer, in short, was that no, he didn't. His mother did. Heavily. It was a large part of why she'd been so disapproving of Halloween, while diligently providing offerings every Dia de los Muertos. Sterling had just been glad of the sugar-spun treats. He hadn't really cared about the rest. "I don't give a ****," he continued flatly. It was clear from the way his arms were crossed against his chest, however, that he did. He was silent for the remainder of the drive, only speaking when they finally slowed, crawling past the bright neon signs of gas stations and sparse convenience stores and diners to turn into the parking lot of a roadside motel that he spoke.

"I'll get the room," he muttered. He didn't wait for Remington's compliance. He didn't wait for him to unlock the passenger side door, for that matter; instead reaching over to hit the lock himself before wrenching the door open and shutting it with a touch more force than necessary a second later. He stalked over to the squat, faded brick building labeled 'Office,' feet crunching over gravel. The rusted white of the screen door squealed loudly on its hinge as he entered the dim interior. A small oscillating fan huddled to one corner of the desk, a bank of black and white monitors sprawled to the immediate center. The clerk at the desk glanced up at him as he entered, expression sour. Skeptical. "How many?" Grunted at last. Sly. As if people like Sterling typically only had one reason for turning up at an establishment like that one, dawn an hour away, at best. "Two."

He handed over his credit card and received two room keys in turn. "Have a good night." The response was automatic. Lackluster. He stepped outside again a second later, moving around the driver's side to toss a set of keys at Remington. "212." The word was clipped. He turned on his heel a second later, heading down the covered walkway. He stopped in front of a dull Kelly green door a second later. The key he slotted into the lock, however, was for a room two doors down. 214. He pushed it open a second later, starting inside.

[Remington Rothfelder]

Well that could have gone better. Remington honestly wasn't sure what he had expected out of Sterling, but he guessed it sounded absurd enough that it made sense the man went a little bit frosty all clipped at the tongue and seemingly displeased. Some part of the Shadow wanted to pull the car over and have a very serious conversation with the other man, do something to convince him that the paranormal world was real so that he could at least legitimize his claim. Like that scene from the story of Hellen Keller, only with less running of water over the hand and more...summoning spirits? Teleporting halfway across the globe? It would have certainly lessened the difficulty of the trip, but it also would have handed evidence over to a living, breathing human of what the vampire was. That was a dangerous thing, especially for one who was so resolutely a defender of secrecy. Created something of an internal struggle for him, an unpleasantness that hovered just beneath his skin.

Maybe it was for the best that Sterling thought he was off his rocker.

So silence clasped onto his tongue and held it fast while he took the exit. The hotel had been easy enough to find, a cheap place that was specifically designed to draw in on late night visitors who were too tired to be picky or too poor to afford anything further down the road, in a bigger town. It was just as well that Sterling went ahead to get the key to their room, because Remi had to gather a few things into his bag from the trunk, and didn't want prying eyes. By the time that he caught up, he was being handed off a way to get into his quarters for the night...apparently he was not going to be sharing with Sterling. Which. Well it made him angry. The vampire was a bit of a steel willed creature as it was, who rarely opened up the hard lock on his heart for anyone.

Even the tiny admittance he had given over to the private eye had been somewhat on the monumental side for him. And Sterling was acting like he couldn't be trusted. Which was honestly, probably reasonable of the human, but that chord of logic did very little to abate the heat that immediately swelled in Remi's chest. He didn't think as he took the key, and then his fist balled around it and as the human walked off, he slammed his knuckles into a wooden door that was immediately adjacent to him. It was just some supply closet for the first floor. Probably a place where the house keeping kept their cleaning supplies and the like. The frame itself splintered with the effort to keep the lock in place and then the whole thing just collapsed.

He then grunted, and followed after Sterling, since their rooms were in the same relative direction though he said nothing until he actually got to his room at which point he dropped his bag and strode over so that he could grip the other man's arm while he stood at the entrance of his own likely unclean habitat. He jerked him right around to face him, peering into those eyes with his own sober, green hues. There was an intensity there normally reserved for when Remi was on a hunt, which did not exactly bode well for Sterling. "I don't take nicely to having my honesty returned with sulking. I don't know what the **** is going through your head, but I like you. So you could at least talk to me so I have a chance to answer for whatever you think I did."

And with that, he shoved their mouths together in a short but forceful kiss, only to shove the other man away a second later so he could scoop up his bag and go to prepare his room for the day.

[Sterling Monsivais (DELETED 6002)]

For a fleeting second, his posture changed. His weight settled, immediately shifting to his bear against his right foot. His bicep flexed underneath Remington's grip. His posture was tense. He was nearly tempted to shrug him off; to pull his arm free of his grip. Instead, his breath escaped in a low hiss. It was a quiet, but unmistakable sound. A noise of mutual aggression, intermingling with frustration. There was a peculiar pressure, dull and persistent, at his knuckles. A not-quite ache. He glanced down, and was puzzled to find that his fingers had curled into a fist. Involuntarily? He recoiled from the thought. The consequences of the answer if it hadn't been. The implications of the kind of person it would make him. He didn't resist when Remington jerked him to face him. His expression, though still hard, softened slightly into something shamefaced. Borderline apologetic. He willed the muscles of his hand to relax, forcing his fingers to release their tension and uncurl. He matched Remington's gaze, his own measured. Searching.

"Ironic. I don't appreciate being dicked around." His tone was curt, and slightly hardened. Exhaustion was catching up to the man, threatening to overwhelm, and it escaped in the form of the rough edge to his voice. A low, incredulous laugh escaped him, thin and derisive. "What's going through my head?" He echoed. "I'm thinking that this was a waste of time. I'm questioning why you can't answer a simple question without diverting it with some Ghostbuster's ****. I'm starting to wonder, if you distrust me that much, whether I want to get involved with whatever it is you may be hiding. That's what---" He was abruptly cut off by the way Remington forced his mouth against his. It was a rough, angry collision of lips and teeth. Heavy with heat and the taste of the man's frustration.

He was left momentarily reeling when he broke away, pausing long enough to grab his bag before turning away. I like you, he'd said. It shouldn't have shaken him the way it did. And yet he stood dazed, as if the man had spat a condemnation. He moved unthinkingly, barely aware that he'd started after him until he reached to wrap his arms around him, his chest flush against his back. "Hey." He said quietly, the words a low, nearly soundless vibration against the space between his shoulders. His hands crept up slowly, palms gently smoothing across his stomach, gradually sliding over his chest. "I'm sorry." The words came easier than he thought they would. He half-thought they'd catch in his throat. Some self-imposed display of defiance brought on by lingering annoyance. "I'm just..." He paused. He wouldn't make excuses for his behavior. It had been, admittedly, childish, regardless of whether exhaustion had played a part in that.

He pushed him gently, guiding him past the threshold as he took a step forward. He took a shallow breath, his grip tightening. "I'll go." Lowly. He didn't elaborate immediately. "With you, I mean. When you're ready to go back. If that's still what you want." He let go then, gradually easing away, half-turning to shut the door behind them. It was a decision he might regret, after a handful of hours worth of sleep. He was careful not to make false promises. "Go to bed, Remington." The words, while snorted, were gentle. Fond. "I need to make a phone call. I'll see you in a few hours."